


A Pair of Strangers, trudging in the snow

by an_earl



Series: Unidentified Human [3]
Category: Noblesse (Manhwa)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Gothic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:03:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27653825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_earl/pseuds/an_earl
Summary: Millenia ago, the Noblesse sentenced and severed every last noble contractor with humans when the Lord decreed contracts outlawed. Now, he has taken fancy to a human himself, offering him endless liberties and protections. The hypocrisy is maddening. Lukedonia has lost their faith in their Noblesse. As nobles go missing from outside of Lukedonia once again, the Noblesse will do something unprecedented: he will leave the island to investigate.Of couse, he takes his little pet human with him.No one has heard from him since.(A look at the first true contract in an age.)
Relationships: Frankenstein & Cadis Etrama Di Raizel
Series: Unidentified Human [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1938127
Comments: 39
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sequel to Unidentified Human and Terrible Human which give some background on the world of this fic, but can be read standalone. A number of Central Knights have gone missing in the human world. Rai and Franken search for them. 
> 
> This fic is Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings and has mature themes. 
> 
> Thanks to Ankesenpaaten for doing a test read.

The wagon in the snow looks roughly the size of a wheelbarrow from where they stand. A black mark in a settled sea of white. It reflects back the cold sun until it seems to shine, like a steppe of flat porcelain, until Frankenstein can no longer bear it and looks away from the snow. He grunts, throws the last mutant in the lot down into its own pool of brown blood. When he opens his eyes, he doesn't look again, just gets back to work stalking the one that bolted. There's a trail of blood dotting the snow, screaming red and begging to be followed. Frankenstein won't let him get away.

But Raizel sees the wagon. Printing two deep dents in a non-existent path. A precariously balanced pile of wood tied down like precious charge. A man and a woman, aged in their later years, at either side of the wagon, heaving and pushing. He is transfixed. Like Sisyphus pushing a boulder up hill, eternally, restlessly, they struggle against the current. The woman stops pushing after a while and her hands rest lazily upon her hip. The man doesn't realise his partner has stopped, he continues on. Then the woman moves — _runs_ — she runs to the ox, takes hold of its reins, and pulls there instead. Raizel realises a moment after the woman has that the wagon is taking a dip. The wheels slowly revolve, anti-clockwise — they are moving, but they are moving backwards. The man doesn't know it, but he will be crushed. The woman doesn't know it, but she will be dragged.

"Frankenstein."

"Yes, Sir?" Frankenstein bristles behind him, stops what he's doing immediately. "…Yes, Master," he corrects himself.

"Help them."

Frankenstein looks up. A momentary confusion overcomes him, a flicker of doubt, of disagreement. "As you wish."

Below them, the man yelps. The woman cries out, as does the ox. Before the man can be hurt by the wheels rolling back upon him, Frankenstein is there between him and the wagon. A two-second flicker. He braces one hand at the wagon's rear, then two. He splays his legs, leans into one shoulder as if keen to keep up appearances. Normal humans, after all, cannot stop a fully-sized wagon stocked with wood from falling backwards down a slope with only one hand.

But as Frankenstein steadies the wagon the ox _thrashes._ It keens and it bucks, managing suddenly to break free, and then it pushes dangerously past the woman galloping further up the slope, further and further into the snow.

Frankenstein is occupied. Being out in the open means being backed into a corner — he can drag the wagon up the slope easily and stop the ox, but he cannot risk exposure. He is stuck pretending the wagon weighs on him, as the human man runs up to his side, clenches his teeth and places his creaking bones on the wood in an attempt to relieve him. But every moment spent play-acting at pushing is a moment more for the woman to run after the ox — of which is heading right for the pile of severed mutant heads Raizel is standing right next to.

Raizel has no choice.

He steps out.

* * *

_"Oof,_ last one, then, one more heave!"

"Come, husband. You can't let him show you up!"

"On three," Frankenstein starts. _"…Three,"_ he says quickly, and the wagon miraculously unwedges itself from the ditch.

The man throws back his head and laughs. He laughs so vehemently a dusting of snow rises from his beard, and his partner comes raising her fist to beat him in the shoulder. But the impact is minimal, with enlarged movement and prolonged contact. It is not a show of anger — the opposite actually — it is a pantomime.

"Oi, you, that's enough. Thank the young man, don't just _stand_ there laughing at his joke."

Frankenstein shakes off snow from his slacks. He quickly fixes the ox, now calmed, back into place. His lips are a thin, tense line.

The ox whines nervously. Frankenstein backs away from it.

"Did you catch Mr tall, dark and handsome taming Bel? I don't know what on earth startled her, she's not usually this flighty." Before Raizel realises what she means to do, the greying woman takes Raizel's hands in hers, squeezes them tight. "How upon _earth_ did you calm her? You, mister, you've got a talent. The ladies down at the farmstead would call you something like an ox-whisperer." She smiles widely. "We are Stoica. Sophia Stoica. The man your strapping companion helped is my husband, Luca Stoica. The ox you so sweetly tamed is Belfram."

"Soph!" Luca says, "why did you tell him that? Now the gentleman _knows_ we stuffed up and gave the lady—" he gestures grandly to the ox "—a man's name."

"Oops. Her name is Bel. Certainly not Belfram. Because fifteen years ago we certainly did not get tricked by an ox seller. Just Bel."

"She is also a Stoica."

They each laugh a little more, and this time Frankenstein joins in. "I would not call that a trick so much as a stroke of luck. The lady was the one that alerted us you were in need of help — we heard her upon the road."

"What road?" And they laugh again.

Raizel does not join in. Frankenstein speaks to them in an amiable, jovial voice, all wide smiles and creased eyes. Before long they walk together down the snowy path towards the farmstead the couple promise is nearby. They tell they are simple peasants, childless, out to collect just one more bout of firewood before waiting out the winter. Soon the conversation takes a turn, and the couple eagerly invites them to their home.

"Please, you must let us give thanks. Without you, I'd have lost the wagon, the firewood and Bel."

"And your husband."

"Luca you needn't be so dramatic."

Frankenstein rebuffs them quickly. "There's no need for thanks. We were just passing by. And we have some place to be. We need to hurry before sundown."

Every word is a lie. They glide easily upon Frankenstein's apologetic tone.

"But you _must_ stay for dinner! We are indebted. It was fate you were passing by. Where are you going? Sundown is but in hours. The next village is a day away."

Every rebuttal is a firmly shut door. Frankenstein smiles amiably. But it seems no use. For the first time Raizel watches as Frankenstein's sharp tongue fails him. "My gratitudes, but we will not intrude."

"You're not intruding. We're offering."

"It was our duty to help as men in the eyes of god, think nothing of it."

"And if you think we will let two guests walk in this cold in the eyes of god, think again."

"Madam, please, we must be on our way."

"Sir, you hurt my wife by refusing her offer."

"We cannot possibly…"

"Young man, I insist."

They speak on and on in these riddles, in this polite sparring of civil society. Frankenstein looks at Raizel with sweat on his brow, an odd look in his eyes as he speaks. When he said there was no need for thanks, Frankenstein had meant it. Frankenstein was not going to help these humans. The wagon could slip. The woman could scream. The man could have fallen down the slope, crushed by his wagon, and that would not have moved him. He is well-versed in what the stakes are of their excursion — they cannot be seen. They cannot be heard. They would stay far away from the populated village, from the smattering of farmsteads just small enough that every human knows every other human, an intricate, ever thrumming web of relationships, where words spread like wildfire even in these frigid winters. Wherever there is people they shall flee like magnetic poles. Introduced species will wreak havoc in a closed terrarium. They had agreed upon this beforehand, a secret pact. It has not been long enough for Frankenstein to have faded from the collective consciousness in this outside world, and every moment of exposure upon this path makes his instincts scream in retaliation. He wants to get back to the mutants he hasn't finished with. He wants to continue tracking prints in the woods. He wants to kill the one that ran. What was a wagon full of wood worth to the likes of him? What was one couple's untimely demise in the snow to their mission? It was a drop of water in a well. It was a fact of life.

"I make the most delicious _ciorba de burta_. Its…its tripe soup. Its not as woeful as it sounds, I promise — actually, tripe is not the most important part of the dish, but the _soup_ itself — I've been putting the bones to boil for at least hours now — all I have to do is add the carrots, bell peppers, parsley—"

Raizel has been in the company of these humans not an hour, and they are already aware of his peculiarity. His otherness. His lack of familiarity with their tripe soup and their lack of tripe. Frankenstein is wary of how Raizel could be regarded. Even now his eyes keep flickering to him, surveying. A noble among humans will stand out like a thumb that was sore, a physical imperfection which can only draw ire. Their human acquaintances travel close to Raizel, their intuitions drawn. Sophia Stoica and Luca Stoica hug their clothes tight as they walk, their breaths mist in the air as they speak and laugh, they sniff, they stumble in the snow. Even Frankenstein rubs his hands together for warmth. Raizel isn't sure if that is feigned or not. Raizel, who cannot register the cold, not truly, gives no indication of being bothered. No matter how long they walk, his breath does not labour, his pace does not slow, and his face does not grow rosy. Frankenstein covers his pink face, fuzzed with the beginnings of stubble, with his hands; he breathes out, slow and careful to catch the warmth.

"Thank you. But...we cannot possibly enter your home...without gifts," Frankenstein continues to crusade.

_"Gifts?"_

"Oh, please."

Rogue nobles have devastated the people along this mountain range. These humans are no stranger to beings like Raizel. They call the mutants _ghouls;_ they call nobles _vampires_. Raizel is aware of the crosses tucked in the folds of Mrs Stoica's fur coat. The rosary beads wrapped many times around both Mr Stoica's wrists. There is garlic in the sack secured to the ox, inexplicably. Raizel knows what other uses the firewood in the wagon have. They are precautions, protections, and they carry these items upon them as they carry their coats in the cold — they are rational, indispensable devices.

Raizel knew this, he knew this all, and yet he'd still caved.

He had been transfixed then.

Seeing not just the wagon, the ox, but the _people._ He stares at Mrs Stoica's rounded face, her deep smile lines as she talks about the dried sweet peppers she'll add to the soup, the bread on the side — " _it might be a little stale, but still good. I promise" —_ not understanding a word she says. _"It'll be warm, we have an open hearth, coal trays, I promise."_ He has no concept of the things she speaks about. He can't fathom how she can make promises so easily. He keeps staring, anyway.

Raizel has never met another human being. Not in this age. He has not even _seen_ a human being since millennia ago, when Lukedonia's doors were still open, when his people built bridges to the mainland, made _connections_ with its inhabitants…connections he had broken, one by one, one after the other. Like tearing petals from flowers, grass from the ground, until broken, severed. There was something so terrible about how severed pairs reached out, as if they could somehow put themselves back together. There is something so terrible about watching the husband and wife struggle. Watching them roll boulders up mountains. He had caved. And when Mrs Stoica places a hand in the small of Frankenstein's back, beckons him in to their small cottage house at their quaint farmstead, Frankenstein swallows and looks to Raizel like a fish upon land. Stranded. An insect in a web. Caught. His eyes are so wide and alarmed it is as if he, like Raizel, had no idea how civil society existed outside of Lukedonia.

Frankenstein has not seen another human for ten years.

"Just one bowl of soup," Mrs Stoica offers. She looks to the darkening skies. At once, Raizel understands her vehemence, the absolute fight she puts up against Frankenstein. Fear permeates the air like a whiff of rot.

She fears for them. For these strangers on this isolated pass. "…Just one night."

Frankenstein looks to Raizel. He says aloud, "It is your decision, Sir."

All eyes turn to Raizel. With just one sentence, Frankenstein has revealed his subordination. It shocks the Stoicas as it does Raizel. They all turn to him, awaiting his ruling.

Raizel nods his assent.

Frankenstein looks Mrs Stoica in the face for the first time. "…Then, just one night, kind Madam."

"Kala NEA!" Mr Stoica announces, and he lets go of Belfram to escort Raizel inside. "But gentlemen, we still don't know your names."

"What an oversight of mine," Frankenstein says. "I am Frederick. May I introduce you to…to my employer." He gestures to Raizel with both hands, his head low. "His Grace, the righteous and merciful Sir Raizel."

This time it's Frankenstein's sudden burst of emotion that coats the air. It is an uneasy sigh. A relaxing of muscles; giving up, or giving in. He has desired all along to take up their offer. But he feels shame in taking it.

Even though it was Raizel's decision.

* * *

The farmstead of Bran is a passing point in the snaking Bargau Pass along the border of Transylvania, Moldavia, and Bukovina. High in the misty Carpathian Mountains, it is one of the small peasant communities under different Romanian Lords who never visited if they could so help it. In the springs and summers the pass is rife with game and birdsong, and prime land for mushroom collecting, but in winter it is a prison. Forted in by battlements of snow and frozen rivers, and encamped within rolling hills of tall, straight conifers, Bran is quite isolated from its neighbouring villages. During the winter months, no one comes in or out of Bran. Communication and travel is completely cut off; it is impossible to get a carriage out in the thick snow, and not even a horse could survive the journey to the town in the conditions. Being so high in the mountains, the air was thinner, too, and outsiders unused to the altitude have trouble breathing.

In the mere few hours the Stoicas were gone, the ends of their cottage door had already frozen to the ground. Frankenstein sees to that quickly enough with a few well-aimed cracks of the Stoica's woodcutting axe. They fight their way through the snow-piled door, scuttling in one after the other, and then Frankenstein, joined by Mr Stoica, fight back the snow and slam out the worsening weather.

Raizel is hit by the smell of something cooking. Warm steam rises in a haze from another room. It is a savoury, homely smell. For one sharp moment he could be back in the mansion, Frankenstein in the kitchen. Mrs Stoica runs to tend to the cooking while Mr Stoica makes a beeline to pile wood into the fireplace. After a while Frankenstein actually trails after Mrs Stoica, and Raizel hears them speak in low tones over the pot.

"Mr Frederick, no! No guest helps his host in the kitchen."

"No, please, think of it as payment for the board."

"No, this is my payment for your heroics."

"No, that was a duty I was obligated to perform."

"No—"

"Mrs Stoica—"

Raizel's eyes roam around, drinking in the surroundings. The Stoica's cottage is a small thing, if Frankenstein were any taller his head would touch the ceiling. But it is a cosy one, even Raizel can appreciate that. He is fascinated by the colourfully painted eggs upon their shelves, the small figurines of people. They must be saints. Raizel settles upon a cross set upon the fireplace. It is large, and well-polished.

"You are an orthodox man, aren't you?" Mr Stoica asks.

Raizel doesn't understand what he is asking. But Mr Stoica simply grins at the confused look on his face.

"Your earring. That's why I ask." He raises his hands slightly, gesturing. "Nothin' about it. It's just reassuring to see. Call me suspicious, Sir, but Bel is a very good judge of character. And she wasn't so fond of your companion. Not at all. I wasn't sure why Soph was so fervent until I saw you."

Unthinkingly, Raizel touches a finger to his earring. It is a Lukedonian cross. An emblem of the Lord's. The same symbol lies upon the Lord's Ragnarok, gilded in gold. It is fitting then; Raizel's cross beholds him to his Lord, the Stoica's, to theirs.

Mr Stoica sighs knowingly. "The ghouls and _strigoi_ are repelled by the cross. You are wise to wear it," he says kindly.

Raizel is left to his silence for a while before his attention is caught by one of the figurines. One is a man, holding a woman's shoulders, leaning in as if to beckon her to turn to him. However, the woman's arms are raised, her face looking away from him. They don't look like saints. Raizel isn't sure who they are.

"The figurines caught your eye, have they?" Mr Stoica pipes up from his stool. He's tending to the fire, he doesn't even look up as he says, "It's an old folk story. Quite a morbid one, too. Would you like to hear?"

Raizel sits down. "Please."

Mr Stoica smiles into the fire. "Once there was a young husband and wife who loved one another very, very much. One day the wife came across a viper who bit her in the breast. The wife died from the poison and she sunk into the underworld where the souls of dead humans go. The husband, who came back home and found his wife on the floor, was beyond distraught. So he did something no man ever had the courage to do. He went down to the underworld himself, where he met the Grim Reaper. He demanded his wife. The Reaper, feeling generous, made a deal with the husband: he can find and take back his wife, he can even bring her back to the world of the living, he can save her; _however,_ if he does, he can never, _ever_ look his wife in the face again. The husband agreed. He found his wife, brought her back with him to their home where they lived a charmed life indeed, merry each day and night, together celebrating the births of many children. One day the husband grew too curious. He could not help himself. So he turned to gaze upon his wife. His wife, whom he had fathered three children with, was rotted in the face. Her eyes black sockets. Her jaw missing. Crawling with maggots." Mr Stoica feeds another block into the fire, brows pulled in concentration. Raizel waits.

Mr Stoica turns, seeing the intent look on his face. "…Oh, that's it. The end."

"…But what happened to the man and wife?" Raizel asks, concerned.

"I don't know. That's how the story ends. Her face is rotted." He huffs and claps his hands together. "I think the story is some moral about keeping your hands to yourself. Not asking questions you don't want the answer to. Sometimes it's better not to know. Some such like that." Mr Stoica snickers a little. "Oh, Sir, the look on your face. I said it was morbid, didn't I?!"

He doesn't mind that it's morbid, not a bit. But it beguiles Raizel — if the man had made a deal, then why should he break it? Why must he look at his wife? If the man truly loved his wife, why should the sight of her avert him? Why would it matter? There was something more, however, something needling from the recesses of Raizel's mind, shifting restlessly, upturning like waves…the story is familiar to him. Like…déjà vu. Has he heard it before? Does he know this story? After a while of musing, Raizel sighs and brings his thoughts elsewhere. It must simply be a mistake, he could not have heard this story before. It is human, and very simply, he is not.

Before long, Frankenstein and Mrs Stoica arrive together lugging the largest pot of soup Raizel has ever seen. Even Frankenstein looks proud — and he is already a good cook. Mr Stoica sets the table and shepherds him to a seat where they gather around to eat.

* * *

"Wait! Wait Mr Frederick! We haven't said grace," Mrs Stoica taps her palm on the table. "Let's see. Let's thank our Lord for the kind strangers today who saved us many hours of trouble. Saved Bel. Got our door open. We are thankful for the warm food upon our table. Thankful for a store full of wood, and a night full of warmth." She smiles at Raizel. "And friends to share it with."

Mrs Stoica turns to her husband, squeezes his shoulder in a loving gesture. "I'm thankful to be alive." Mr Stoica looks straight at Frankenstein, who chooses that moment to take great interest in his spoon. "I'm thankful for my wife's good judgment. I'm thankful the ghouls have not eaten a single one of us since the winter's start! Haha!" He laughs, loudly, and Mrs Stoica nods in equal celebration.

Mr Stoica turns to Raizel, and Frankenstein immediately stops staring at his utensils. "Ah, my employer…"

Raizel raises his hand. Frankenstein's voice dies in his throat. He is silenced so fast it looks as if he may be afflicted with a medical problem. But this is a duty Raizel can fulfil, this ritual of gratitude to speak one's thanks. He understands this much. He speaks up for the first time. "I am thankful to have met you."

It is a Lukedonian term. That is the gist of that turn of phrase, but the heart of it is not quite able to be fully expressed in this tongue. It is not simply to have met someone, but to have conversed with them. To have opened the mind. To hear them. To know them. To have heard them, and known them.

Frankenstein looks stunned. Then he makes a face, his brows pull inwards; he looks down as if in rebuke, and turns away.

"Oh, Sir Raizel. That's very sweet."

"Amen, Sir Raizel."

It is Frankenstein's turn.

Frankenstein thumbs the spoon on the table. He swallows. "…I'm thankful for this delicious soup."

The Stoicas wait a while. But Raizel knows he is finished.

"Amen," Frankenstein ends.

"Amen."

"Amen to that, Mr Frederick."

Everyone spoons food into their bowls. When Frankenstein realises Raizel has not engaged he replaces Raizel's empty bowl with his filled one and starts all over again. He breaks a large piece of bread for him. He butters it for him. Then he dips it in his soup.

"Didn't I keep my promise, Sir?" Mrs Stoica leans towards him. "Isn't the soup good?"

"Your promise is kept," Raizel says, between a small bite of bread. "It is warm, and plentiful. It is made of many things. It is nothing I have ever tasted."

"Oh you bet, great Sir. My wife's _ciorba de burta_ is the best in the Bargau."

"It could do with a few embellishments," Frankenstein says, and takes a sip from his bowl like he is tasting fine wine. "It's a little brine-heavy for my employer's taste."

"Sir Raizel, is this true?!"

"It is fine."

"Oh of course the Sir would say that. He's a Sir! He has to like your soup, Soph."

"Well look who's fault it is. All your buttering me up has ruined me Luca. Best in the Bargau? Do you know how big the Bargau is?"

"Your word is kept," Raizel says again, and Frankenstein seems to stifle a small smirk next to him. "I promise."

As they eat, they talk. The couple are already convinced Raizel and Frankenstein are strange — they are more than strange — they have been caught traveling in deep snow with no luggage nor rations. The conversation soon arcs towards their destination — the Stoicas ask where they are going, where they are from, who they are. But this time Frankenstein answers readily. "My employer Sir Raizel is a nobleman from the westernmost side of Byzantium. That is why his customs may seem so different, and I ask for your understanding."

"Ohh, that's no matter," Mr Stoica says. "So long as you aren't Hungarians. Haha!"

 _"Luca!"_ Mrs Stoica chastises. She whispers to him loudly enough for all to hear, _"Our guests don't want to hear about war."_

"What about you, young man?" 

Frankenstein refolds his napkin after use, giving no indication he has been enquired. All eyes remain upon him. 

"Me?" Frankenstein utters. As if it not the custom to ask after subordinates.

"Yes, you."

"…I'm from very far away. I am from," Raizel can almost _see_ Frankenstein's mind work, the cogs turn, "from the very end of the Danube."

"Oh, Mr Frederick is a Latin man?"

"Yes," Frankenstein agrees stiffly.

"Ah, couldn't have guessed!"

Soon, someone remembers there is mead available, and Frankenstein perks up a lot after drinking one cup. The Stoicas tell them about how the ox seller tricked them into buying Belfram, how it was a blessing in disguise as they fell in love with the animal. They speak about the last festivals they danced in, Mr Stoica sings for them a song he said filled the air that day for hours. At one point Mrs Stoica leaps to her feet to grab at the painted eggs, eager to show them off. She brushes one clean off the shelf, yelping — but luckily Frankenstein is quick, he catches it.

"Quick hands, Mr Frederick! Around you no husbands nor eggs shall be crushed! Now come, look at my eggs. These are last year's, reds and yellows and just a hint of blue. What do you think, what do you think?"

"I…don't believe my opinion very much matters, Mrs Stoica."

"Nonsense. If you have time to critique my soup and kitchen you very much must have an opinion on my eggs."

"You need more blue. I like this one, it's intricately painted. Symmetrical."

"I _knew_ so."

As they speak excitedly to one another, Frankenstein's mouth curls into smiles; each time, a little easier, a little more real. When he converses, it sounds leisurely.

Raizel sits amiably with Mr Stoica.

"It's been such a long time since we've had visitors," Mr Stoica says, eyeing the two along with Raizel with the same kind of fondness. "No one's come in a long time. This farmstead has gotten smaller and smaller and smaller. It didn't always used to be like this, Sir Raizel. It used to be a vibrant place, full of women and children. With dancing and story-telling."

Raizel listens. "…It sounds wonderful. I would have liked to have visited." He huffs, holding Mr Stoica's warm eyes. "Why did they leave?"

"Why? Haha…" Mr Stoica chews on his lip for a moment, looking grave. "We're a superstitious folk, Sir Raizel. We had this story, all of us convinced it was true."

Raizel leans in. This is a motion Frankenstein makes when he believes Raizel is not finished in his pause. It is a motion of acknowledgement: he is listening. He is willing.

"Oh, you wouldn't like it," Mr Stoica makes a low noise in his throat and slaps the table. "If you didn't like the husband and wife there's no way you'd like this one. It's silly and all."

"You can say anything," Raizel says, "I won't think it is silly."

Mr Stoica huffs kindly. "Right. Well. Once, there was a doctor. He was a good doctor who treated his patients well. One day his patient lay dying, and there was nothing he could do…"

He tells the story.

It is a little different, a little off. But the gods said: all people must all die in the end. The arrogant doctor still could not accept it. So the devil said: I will grant you immortality. Raizel isn't sure which is correct anymore — does the doctor even care about beating death? Does the doctor care about his dying patients? He tries to be rational, tries to listen to the story, but it all blurs into the background of white noise, and all Raizel can hear is the howling of the wind outside, the flurries of snow that beat the door, the rush of blood through the veins of his hosts, the rats in the floorboards, the blood in them, and he realises, belatedly, that this is a sign of mounting panic.

Raizel looks over to Frankenstein, searching his face with the vague expectation he too, should be in shock, in uproar. But Frankenstein is _laughing_ with Mrs Stoica. He wasn't listening. He is laughing contentedly along with Mrs Stoica, who is showing him a piece of embroidery.

"And this is the pattern I have started for next year's festival."

"Hm. This is an ambitious stitch," Frankenstein pops out his monocle. Mrs Stoica lifts the embroidery to accomodate and Frankenstein eyes it an inch from his face. "Double-sided. Incredibly skilled."

Much of what has been said about Frankenstein is incomplete, embellished, or false. They are woven in hearsay now, more story than fact. Like the figures featured in Mrs Stoica's embroidery, Frankenstein has become a series of crosshatched stitches upon which, for better or worse, human and noble can impose their own beliefs and imagination: Frankenstein is exactly what they want him to be. Out of all the questions Mr and Mrs Stoica have asked Frankenstein, all the things he has made up to say, _Where are you from? What is your past?_ — Raizel realises he does not know the answer to a single one of them. He hasn't an idea what a Danube is, nor a Latin man — only that Frankenstein has answered as he always has. With misdirection. As Frankenstein laughs again amidst the humans, effortlessly weaving into their conversations, their rituals and likeness, their opinions and misgivings, Raizel watches. His eyes turn from the Stoicas to Frankenstein only.

He is transfixed.

Like a human, intrinsically drawn to a noble in their primodial encounter; like the Stoicas were initially to Raizel.

Raizel realises, somewhat stupidly, that Frankenstein is as alien to him as the Stoicas.

"How do you manage to do this cross-stitching?" Frankenstein ponders, when a slight breeze whaps the embroidery into his face. He pulls back. "How do you get it in this fashion…so exactly?"

"Mr Frederick," Mrs Stoica says, delighted, "you like sewing?"

"I, er," a muscle in Frankenstein's lip jumps. "I'm a tailor."

"Sir Raizel employs you as his _tailor?"_

"…Among other things, yes, I tailor his garments."

"Alright, Mr Frederick. We shall have ourselves a deal. You tell me what 'embellishments' you spoke of before for the soup. I give you the family secret with the embroidery."

 _"Done,_ Mrs Stoica."

"Done."

Frankenstein folds the embroidery nicely and they talk some more about other food they both can make. Mrs Stoica laughs heartily. But Raizel feels hot in his head. Their emotions are running high, leaking out to Raizel; Mrs Stoica's voice grows louder and the night takes a turn as she garbles a little in her next speech. She, her face reddened by drink, lays her hand upon Frankenstein's arm, and says, warmly, "I wish I had a son like you. If we could—if we—if we if we could have had children, if we could have had a son — he'd be your age now…"

Frankenstein's smile drops.

Mr Stoica drags the last of the mead across the table in one noisy, drawn-out screech. "Don't listen to the missus. She's drank two cups too many," he says, as he pours Frankenstein the last drink. "Son."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set anywhere between 800-900 AD in the Byzantine Empire (then known simply as part of the Roman Empire), the Carpathians, Eastern Europe - in the place that will be known as Romania many years on. The Bargau Pass is today's Tihuța Pass.
> 
> The Western Roman Empire has Latin influence, whereas the Eastern Byzantine Empire has Greek influence.  
> The Romans have the Roman Catholic Church, and the Byzantines have the Eastern Orthodox Church.
> 
> The 'human world' is set here because it's the land where vampire mythos were born.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frankenstein's past, which he has never spoken about, is all the people speak of outside Raizel's mansion walls.

They had followed the trail of mutant bloodshed. It wasn't hard to find: the Noblesse had dominion over blood, life and death, and his bonded, a keen hunter and tracker, was eager to prove his worth. The last report sent by the joint Mergas 1 and Loyard 2 squads was received one year ago from deep in the Eastern Carpathians by one Dumas of Mergas.

_Mutants made by human and noble in union. Traitors amidst us. Send reinforcements._

Even so, the point of disappearance was vast. The Knights could be anywhere in the maze of valleys and forest.

Before they left Lukedonia, Frankenstein had petitioned, "Let me find your missing people. Let me off this island, and I will bring to you the heads of those responsible. Let me prove to you my loyalty."

He said _loyalty,_ not innocence. When nobles began to go missing in the human world once more, the first culprit the nobles implicated was Frankenstein. Frankenstein had sparsely defended himself. In fact, he embraced the accusations, flaming them up whenever he was challenged upon the path, daring nobles into open brawls. He was vocal and unashamed. He didn't deny anything. After all that had been said about him, Frankenstein happily embodied the creature that had stalked Lukedonia, he easily became the human who hunted nobles. His mission now was the very same — he did not see a difference.

But there is a difference, to Raizel. The Frankenstein that had found and entered Lukedonia was not the same Frankenstein that had left its shores. Now Frankenstein hunts nobles for Raizel. He kills mutants in the name of Raizel. He shows compassion by the grace of Raizel. Everything he will ever say or do will forever, in the eyes of Lukedonia and her forebears in eternal sleep, tie him to Raizel. His every burden, every regret, every guilt — they belong to Raizel as well. 

The truth of their contract can absolve Frankenstein of all sin immediately. The Noblesse had judged him so. 

But Frankenstein had implored to him. "Let us not carelessly show our hand, Sir," he had said, in appeal. Secretly, so they may not be overheard. "I want to be my own for just a little longer. Can you permit me that?"

* * *

At night, when Raizel enters the guest quarters, a small hut of a room, he finds Frankenstein haunched up in a corner, candlelight perched nearby. A glint darts around the room, interrupting the large shadows cast on the walls as he works attentively in a small bronze mirror. He is holding a knife to his face.

Frankenstein startles.

"Oh…it's you. I—I mean — what I mean to say is…" Frankenstein stands. He stands so quickly he knocks into the small bench at his knee, sending personal care items Mr Stoica procured for him all over the floor. He, pretending not to notice any of this, clears his throat, and bows shortly. "Excuse me. You've caught me at a bad time." He cups a hand to his face, obscuring the half of his cheek that he had not finished shaving.

Raizel gives him an apologetic look. He bends, reaches for the comb on the floor, but Frankenstein vaults over, pulling the bench along with him in order to snatch it up before Raizel can. With a tiring kind of gusto, he picks up each of the dropped items and throws them back into place. "Excuse me. I didn't think you'll retire so soon. I — I haven't gotten this place cleaned up yet," he says, as if he were not also a guest to this place. Regardless, his face burns with embarrassment. Raizel realises his face goes red in the extreme cold, and the extreme heat.

They have, before this, camped out in the snow and wood for days, Frankenstein haunched around a campfire while Raizel sat beside him on a wet, downed log, and Frankenstein had hunted grouse with his bare hands to be peeled bloody in front of him; but the moment they are in a house again with clunking floorboards and a rug and a low roof it is as if a different set of rules have come into play, and Frankenstein is mortified he has not made the room — and himself — presentable to standard.

"It is no matter." Raizel moves purposefully to the other side of the room. "I see I have intruded upon you."

"I…no…" Frankenstein begins, but his protestations die down. 

Frankenstein resumes shaving with the straight razor. Raizel watches on in fascination. Frankenstein has grown accustomed to his audience, he continues on as if no one had interrupted. When he uncups his left cheek, he swipes a line of blood away. He'd cut himself when Raizel had startled him. By the time he'd sat down again it had already healed over, but he dips his fingers in the pail of water to clean off the blood.

Raizel knows he shouldn't stare, all manner of animal hate staring — not even nobles like this scrutinisation — but he cannot help it. "May I ask you a question?"

"Pardon?" Frankenstein looks into the mirror, seeing Raizel behind him. They lock eyes that way. But then Frankenstein lowers them. It is a trait Raizel connects to lowborn nobles — their eyes shift downwards, as if burned, reprimanded, careful for their lines of sight to never meet. Even the Clan Leaders when met with him do this careful dance. He sees it in criminals, too — if they do not look down Raizel will make them. It is a trait Frankenstein had never known when he arrived in his mansion; before Raizel had ever looked into his mind he looked into his eyes, squared and proud, and knew, at once, he was not from his land.

"May I ask you a question?" Raizel repeats.

Frankenstein drags the razor across his chin one last time before running a cloth over his face. "Sir, you realise you don't need to _ask_ me anything." He turns to him. "I _answer_ to you."

His face is smooth now, highlighting his strong jaw and sharp chin. He'd lost the comb he liked to carry in his pocket during one battle with mutants, and hadn't been able to groom until now. The candlelight illuminates his agreeable features, his honey-blonde hair. He is a very youthful man.

Raizel evades his words. "How can you be hurt by a razor upon your cheek?"

Frankenstein's face goes through at least six separate emotions in quick succession before he begins to interpret and re-interpret his sentence as Raizel plods slowly to the next word. "…I have seen you do battle with Clan Leaders. I have seen you slay mutants without so much as attaining a scratch upon your body."

"Oh…" Frankenstein's brows rise; his shoulders sag a little, as if in relief. "It's simple. My powers give me a degree of protection, when I summon it to my fingertips it shrouds my entire body. When I am ready to fight, I have a certain amount of durability. But my body is not naturally as invincible as that of a noble's. When I do not use that power, when I am in a state of rest, or idle—"

Frankenstein cuts himself off.

Raizel notices this, but does not react. Frankenstein's eyes go cloudy, calculating, as if he knows he has said the wrong thing. But to retract it now will only condemn him further. He couldn't hide his regret, but the best coverup by far was how he consistently acted formal, yet not quite, forbidding. The mistake has been made, there is no going back.

"…When I don't use my powers," Frankenstein says, "I'm just like the humans."

At that, he crosses the room, to the dust-laden storage chest with the Stoicas' spare sheets and clothes. Frankenstein smiles contentedly as he rummages through the chest and begins making the bed. He tosses the first sheet, shaking off a layer of dust with diligent force, motioning Raizel to step back. "Worry not. Just because you have sealed my powers does not mean I'll be defective in my duties. I can handle any of your enemies without disobeying your orders."

Raizel listens in rising dread. Because Frankenstein continues on, stating over and over, "I can take a noble on in this form. I've fought plenty of nobles in Lukedonia. So many were keen to test their strength against me. I've survived many years without Dark Spear. You've seen me perform. I can do it without coming out unsightly. I can — I can even challenge Ragar like this!"

By the time he reaches his last point, they both know he has told a lie. An obvious one, a bold-faced one. Frankenstein hurries to finish making the bed. Then, in a sweet, charming voice, the kind he had employed at dinnertime, he says, "I thought I would ask Mrs Stoica to use the kettle. Perhaps I can make myself useful and brew you your tea tonight."

Frankenstein smiles kindly. But the movement is measured and tight: it is a polite show, not a true conveyance of happiness. Moreover, he takes Raizel's shocked silence as a negative.

"No? They won't mind. They're very grateful you saved them."

It is that admission that strikes Raizel out of his stupor. His brows pull together in stress. "You were the one who stopped the wagon."

"No. It was your call." He turns suddenly, gesturing to the bed. Raizel realises right then that there is only one. Frankenstein has made himself a cot on the furtherest point of the other side of the room. Which isn't very far away; the room was quite small.

Frankenstein smiles. "Let me help you get ready for bed."

* * *

One day Raizel stood at his window as he always did and realised, with a sudden clarity like a start from a dream, that a decade had passed. This was a strange thing to note. It was a novel experience for an ageless being who's ability to exist and cease to exist is completely separate from the passage of time, and who thus had no need to be its keeper. But he noticed it then, sure and obvious as anything: it had been ten years since Frankenstein had worn Raizel's clothes in disguise, smiling boldly without any idea of just how disingenuous Raizel could see him to be. It had been months since Frankenstein had served him tea with that same smiling face, not knowing Raizel had already determined its contents, and drank it anyway. It didn't feel very long, even though the years come unyielding for humankind — time moves faster for them. He had never had to care, after all. But he still pondered on this realisation. There was a word for this phenomenon that humans have, and Raizel didn't: anniversary. An acknowledgement — no — a _celebration_ of time spent in particular fashion.

Frankenstein looked the same. Frankenstein continued to move in his fast-paced ways, unbothered by anything — except maybe the holes in the spinach over which he once loomed, one beady, monocled eye judging harshly its vegetable complexion. "Hideous," he had said, wiping his forehead. "Completely unacceptable." He sighed, defeated, then started on the next plot in the garden. "I'll deal with you later." Then Frankenstein busied himself digging the dirt to plant his new strawberries, and Raizel thought, privately, that this is why it was so easy to lose track of time. Frankenstein did something, or said something, and time was no longer consequential. He could stay like this forever. Watching him dig dirt. Carefully slow. When Raizel felt the cold bite of his duties weigh on him, heard the silent, distant derision of his subjects, this was the place that manifested in his head. Frankenstein in the garden, hair tied loosely with a ribbon, spooning perfectly equal measures of water over each plant. "Hm," he'd said with satisfaction. "These should start producing fruit in a few months. I'll keep you informed for the harvest." This was a fond memory. Long after these strawberries had burst from the bud, blushed into crimson, gleamed upon a plate, they would still be remembered as they were here. Young shoots in Frankenstein's hands. Forever green. Forever new.

When Frankenstein left the house, Raizel didn't know where he went. When he said goodbye, Raizel didn't know how long he would be gone. When he told a story, explained a happenstance that occurred, answered a question, he didn't always tell the truth. Raizel knew. He had never minded. But then why did it occupy his mind now? Endlessly, these thoughts grew weary, grew teeth, until they gnawed at him. Maybe after all these years he has begun to question how strange it is to have lived with someone for so long, and yet know nothing about them outside of pleasant greetings and polite small talk. Frankenstein's past, which he has never spoken about, is all the people speak of outside his mansion walls.

In the garden, Frankenstein mashed dirt around the strawberries, moved worms gently out of the way. He spotted Raizel outside at the garden's edge. He looked him in the eyes, and smiled deeply as he straightened up, waving, beckoning him closer.

"Sir Raizel!" he called. He still called him by his name, then. "Your carnations are blooming." He motioned to a shrub of vibrant pink and red flowers Raizel had never watered nor gardened a day in his life. Yet vehemently, he asserted they are his. All things in this garden are his. Frankenstein dusted his hands off, then picked four of the brightest carnations and arranged them with a little bow. "I used to pick these every time I saw them. They grew everywhere, back in my—" He stopped short. Frankenstein huffed a little nervously and scratched a dirty hand to his neck — something he'd never do if not in dire distraction. "They used to grow everywhere," he finished. Raizel had wanted to ask. _Where did they grow? Who did you pick them for? What colours do you like?_ But he stopped short, too, he tried to stop himself from thinking these thoughts, these accusing notions about his charge. He was happy to have him here. He was happy to have met him. He did not believe the stories. Time went on in a leisured blink of an eye: fast and slow.

Raizel knows what he is doing. He is counting years, counting months, days, hours — a new thing he has learned to do — because one day between drawing one breath and the next, he will make a mistake. He will say something wrong and with complete obtuse confidence ask something damning; he will grow too curious. Speaking is treason. Silence is a virtue. Raizel thinks back upon those Lukedonian words of well-wishes he'd given to the Stoicas —blessed to have heard them, known them. To have opened the mind…By this count, has he really met Frankenstein, then?

Raizel lives as if he has his back turned upon Frankenstein. Fearful of glancing back. Like he is leading the way to the light while Frankenstein stands in his shadow, following, following. Like a spirit, incorporeal, growing more real as he comes nearer. And Raizel knows if he looks back — if he looks at Frankenstein, takes a glance at his true face—

He'll disappear. Forever.

* * *

After Frankenstein has untied Raizel's cravat and removed his outer jacket and undone his shoes to slip on an extra, borrowed pair of Mr Stoica's socks on Raizel's feet, remarking how cold it would be without, Frankenstein blurts, "I didn't know you spoke Greek."

Raizel blinks.

Frankenstein's eyes rove around the room, landing here and there, anywhere but at Raizel. His decision seems to teeter upon a knife edge, swaying precariously, before his reticence tumbles and he grasps his knees with so much force his knuckles crack. As always, when they are alone, he speaks in Lukedonian. "How can you know Greek? You've never even been outside before. You've never been here before. You spoke in perfect Greek to the Stoicas."

Raizel is surprised at his outburst. Frankenstein squirms beneath his gaze. His brows pull together, alert, as if he were hearing his own words echo back to him in the silence. Raizel musters his wits, but Frankenstein is the one who yet again cuts through the stagnant pause. "No. Forget it. I'm sorry I asked. You don't need to explain yourself to me." He takes a breath, gets up. "Please forget this."

"Frankenstein." His name in his mouth captures Frankenstein's attention immediately. He explains, "As a noble, I can understand the notions of the mind and learn the language in which it uses to convey itself."

"So…" Frankenstein says tentatively, "So you read their minds? Is that it?"

It's Raizel's turn to look away. "…No." Another silence envelopes them, but Raizel struggles to the surface. "I read yours."

"You…you read my mind during dinner? When—when I was taking to Mrs Stoica?" There is an uncharacteristic quiver to his voice.

Raizel shakes his head. The candle, which was struggling upon its last dredges, causes his shadow to writhe. Finally, the wick expires, and the light goes out. "No. But I have. In the past."

"Do you always read my mind?" Frankenstein asks, in the dark. 

"No."

"Is that a lie?"

"I have no need to lie to you."

"…Apologies for speaking so forwardly."

"You have a right to ask," Raizel says. "I have a duty to answer."

Frankenstein huffs, like he knew Raizel's answer before he said it. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No."

"Then you should get some rest, Sir." Frankenstein gets up. "You haven't slept for days," he says tentatively, even though he knows Raizel does not require regular intervals of slumber. "I'll be fine tonight. You don't need to watch over me. It's not very often we'll be resting with a roof over our heads out in the mountains. Tomorrow, we leave first thing in the morning. I'll continue the search for your missing people. Please get as much sleep as you can."

Raizel nods. But he spends some time before the small window, watching the still snow. He's never seen anything quite like it until he'd come here. It never snows on Lukedonia. Frankenstein sits around the room, placing boxes or knickknacks or rags in perfect symmetry. When he has run out of things to place parallel to one other, he begins folding the Stoicas' spare sheets and clothes in the chest. Most of them are Mr Stoica's when he was young. Some look to be clothes for dolls of Mrs Stoica's. Tiny mittens and knitted shirts. 

It is only when Raizel slips into the bed does Frankenstein retire too. He climbs into his cot in his suit and slacks. The only thing he undresses is his necktie, a black silk-satin ribbon, which he smooths out beside him in a straight line. It takes him a few attempts of positioning to be satisfied.

"Good night, Sir."

"Good night, Frankenstein."

"Good night," he says, quieter, "Master."

But neither of them shut their eyes. Raizel can hear Frankenstein toss and turn in his cot, arranging and re-arranging the scratchy covers he took for himself, having left the plush cotton covers to Raizel. He tosses and turns.

* * *

"…Master," Frankenstein whispers, at one in the morning. "…Do you read my mind often?"

"No."

There is a pause.

"Why not?"

"Why… _not?"_

"I mean, why shan't you read my mind?" he says conversationally. There is a shuffle of sheets, of Frankenstein twisting in his cot, pulling the covers closer. He sniffs his nose. "The contract makes me more readily available to you."

"That is so," Raizel agrees. "I will not pry."

"Is there a reason why?" Frankenstein presses.

"…It is not the way for humans." Raizel says finally. "It is a violation of privacy. For a human who has no mastery over the mind, not every thought is meant to be communicated. It is their prerogative to direct themselves. To choose how to present. For a noble it is normal, we hold the power to shield the thoughts that are most private. This is not so, for humans."

He says this even though he knows Frankenstein is excluded from this logic — he has gained mastery over the mind, he has forged his own protections in place. It is simple to see Frankenstein is not satisfied by that answer. But he decides very quietly he will not press upon the matter; he has taken Raizel's reticence as a rejection of his inquiry. Frankenstein makes a comment about the dinner, how nice it was to be near a coal heater, then he bids him good night again.

But then Raizel shifts and turns in his bed. He flounders between the covers, unable to think of anything else other than the inquiry. Wondering what he has to hide. After a while, after a period of silence, he caves. "I used to read your mind. Just your surface thoughts, because delving deep makes one aware of the intrusion. I did not mean to startle you, only to understand you. Only to know if you were well. One day you poured me fresh tea you brewed, and when I took it, I carelessly misadjusted my grip and the cup smashed upon the floor. You looked at me and thought, god, I want to get out of here."

Frankenstein turns in his cot.

"I want to get out of his house. Be far, far away from you. Never look you in the eyes again. God, let me get away from here," Raizel recites, like memorised poetry. Like lines of a book. "…I do not mind. I think, if I were you. If I were anyone else. The feeling…would be mutual."

Frankenstein sits up. He bolts upright, like springs coming loose, and even in the dark Raizel can tell his head is spun in his direction, watching wide-eyed. But all he does is hover in the cool room before laying back down and pulling the cooled covers over his body. Up, and down.

"You need not go back to that house," Raizel adds, suddenly. He cannot seem to stop himself. When he starts speaking, it flows out of him like a current of relief. He wants to get it out, now, get this thing out of him, no matter how horrible it is. "You do not have to return. I am noble, you are human. Your kin is here, with humanity. You have more in common with Sophia and Luca Stoica than you can ever have with me. You can stay here, if that would make you happy."

Frankenstein doesn't answer. Raizel shifts in his direction, daring a look. He adjusts his inhuman eyes, glowing red.

A laugh careens through the dark.

Frankenstein snickers, then his snicker turns into a chuckle, his chuckle into outright laughter. He places a hand to his mouth, muffling the sound, Raizel thinks he might have even stuffed covers between his lips when it becomes more and more faint and distorted.

"Stay here, Sir?" Frankenstein says. "Stay here and do what? Live in this shack of a farmstead in the middle of nowhere? Work on Mr and Mrs Stoica's farm? Be Mr and Mrs Stoica's son?"

Frankenstein laughs again. It is harsh and mocking. Then it dies down, like water coming down from a boil, until still and silent.

"…Sir?"

"Yes, Frankenstein."

"I'm sorry."

"It is fine," Raizel says. "You can laugh."

Then they go to sleep.

* * *

At three in the morning, Raizel has not moved a muscle since retiring. He lies stock still, hands plastered at his sides, staring at the thatched ceiling. Raizel is still not asleep. And with his senses, he knows Frankenstein has not slept a wink either. For hours, they have both lain there like planks of wood. Two bodies, with their heads separated.

"Frankenstein."

Frankenstein's eyes snap open. "Sir?" He shuffles loudly as if hauling himself to rise. "What may I do for you?"

"Nothing. Rest."

A bout of confusion fills the room. Frankenstein opens and closes his mouth, unsure of himself. He is poised to move, get up, go to him, do _something_ , but he has taken Raizel's words as command. He lies there anxiously. He does not dare to get up. Raizel stares at the ceiling, making note of the cobwebs, the funny discolouring. There is a deceased bat resting upon one of the beams holding up the roof, all dry and shrivelled. He wonders how it got inside. How long its been there. How much longer until it turns to dust. 

"I want to ask you a question."

More confusion rises out of Frankenstein, this time with some disbelief. He has already told him — masters do not ask: they demand. Yet he utters, "Of course," in a high voice. "Please."

"What do you think of the humans?" Raizel says.

Frankenstein is completely taken aback. "Why do you ask?"

Raizel isn't sure.

"I simply wish to hear your views." Raizel's throat constricts. "…I don't know anything about you."

"I've lived under your wing for ten years."

"Indeed."

Frankenstein answers calmly. "Haven't you heard those stories about me? It's all the nobles think about."

Raizel lies still. But he moves his head, straining to see Frankenstein. Frankenstein is faced away from him towards the wall.

"I have."

"Do they scorn me?"

"They do."

"Do you believe the stories?"

"I don't."

"Well you should," Frankenstein remarks. "They're real."

The air around him is light, conversational, he said it in the same tone he'd use to recommend Raizel to take another fruit tart for himself; they're tasty. Frankenstein has not admitted anything, he has simply stated his fact with a sense of proprietary, with his chest squared and his chin tipped. Raizel knows the conversation has ended.

Five minutes later, the sheets rustle again.

"I wasn't going to help those humans," Frankenstein says. As if confessing.

"I know," Raizel answers. There is no emotion in his voice, no approval or disapproval. It is as it is. He knows.

Frankenstein doesn't say anything else.

* * *

Raizel awakens sometime later. It is still dark, calm. He had always enjoyed the tranquility of this time: the peaceful silence, the sleepy slide of sunset into indigo, the stars peppered into sight, like a blanket pulled over the earth. The absence of light, but not of life. Outside, owls move in the dark, hunting upon their territories, birds warm their nests, and a number of night creatures roam in the snow, blended white like winter ghosts. The world moves in its other design, no less constant. For every minute vaults towards an hour, hours into days; for every day there was night, an endless order rolling in tautology, a perpetual wheel he has watched turn for centuries. A constant companion. A sickening truth. This is what will be left for him when he returns to Lukedonia, goes eagerly back to his stoic mansion, alone again. Blissfully remote. He thought he liked to be alone, he liked the dark. Maybe he did because he'd never had it any other way.

In the room next door past the set of thin walls, the Stoicas rest, sound asleep. Raizel is aware of their hearts beating steady like breath, their minds working all the while, even if he will not enter them. They are dreaming. He wonders what they dream about. What their minds summon up from the recesses, from nothing, what they think about even when they are not thinking. What wild imaginations plague them, caress them. He hopes they are good. He knows they are not good for Frankenstein; they are never good for him. Night is time to keep watch out his window, listen to the beat of Frankenstein's heart, review the things he has said to him freely, secretly, knowing Raizel would never tell. He is alone with him frequently. He is alone with his words, when Frankenstein has drifted off.

 _I didn't know you spoke Greek. Worry not. No, it was your call. I can handle any of your enemies. Let me prove to you my loyalty. Stay here, Sir? Stay here and do what? Be Mr and Mrs Stoica's son? Do you believe the stories? Sir? Well you should. I wasn't going to save them_.

Somewhere in the room is the discarded cloth, the pail of spent water. In them lies molecules of Frankenstein's blood: something Raizel can pinpoint without thought, pick out out of a river of water. It is this very blood in this room that he has taken into his body, crafted into bonds stronger than any chain. Night has no longer been the same since he has frequently spent his days with Frankenstein: night is no longer a safe haven, a moving cycle among many. There is a feeling, deep inside of him, that he feels in his bones, that is completely involuntary. He feels he is off sometimes, like those stories that never quite match. Maybe he is wrong. Maybe he is sick, like humans get. But it rears its head now, rises through his chest, above his sternum, into his throat, until it threatens to choke him.

In the dead of the same night he is afraid. He waits, still like an animal outside these walls, dusted white to camouflage from its predators, wishing it could be over. Wishing it could be day again. Wishing he did not know why Frankenstein will never be able to look him in his eyes again, wishing he didn't know why Frankenstein wishes he could leave and never come back, wishing, wishing. Raizel imagines Frankenstein in the garden. His nimble hands weed the unwanted vegetation, snip hard roots with a spark of purple, _Hideous,_ he says to the spinach. _Keep you informed of your harvest,_ he says to Raizel. _Once, there was a doctor._ _Once, there was a butcher._ When he looks up, Raizel looks away. When he comes close, Raizel shuts his eyes. Frankenstein continues moving in his fast-paced ways, continues weeding the garden, plants strawberries, again and again. Raizel cannot see his face. Raizel doesn't think he wants to. Maybe it's better this way — that he knows nothing about Frankenstein, that his back is upon him, that he is incorporeal, and Raizel can pretend he is whatever he wants him to be. Maybe Mr Stoica is right: he doesn't want to know.

Maybe Raizel is afraid, like a coward, that Frankenstein is rotted in the face.

Suddenly, Frankenstein turns.

* * *

Raizel chokes awake, his own heart thumping in his chest like hoofbeats, arms raised to shield himself — cover his eyes.

He wills himself to calm down, take heed…

He had been…dreaming. Dreaming about night. About the Stoicas. About other people's dreams.

He turns his head, feels the familiar thrum of resting souls. Outside it is still dark, though it is quietly snowing. The Stoicas are still asleep next door. Belfram rests in her barn. Frankenstein's blood still tinges the room ever so slightly, detectable only to Raizel. Raizel holds his hands to his face, pressing his palms into his eyes. He knows this is not normal: dreaming is not normal for a noble, especially from a master of the mind such as he. Physical symptoms of panic is not normal for a noble who's soul is their true being, the body extraneous. It is something human that has passed onto him since the contract. Something foreign.

Raizel swallows, banishes these thoughts as he turns to — Raizel stops. He looks forward, eyes plastered to the front. Slowly, as he comes down from agitation, he gathers his courage. Raizel turns to see Frankenstein.

The cot is empty. The sheets are neatly folded, rolled up, placed atop the low bench. The ribbon is gone.

Frankenstein is also gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Franken before secret contract: Sir Raizel!!! Your strawberries 🍓🍓🍓 Your carnations 🌹🌹🌹!!
> 
> Franken after secret contract: 
> 
> But seriously, the way Franken speaks about humans in early canon, "they" "them" "the humans," is because the manhwa didn't want to give away his nature. That he himself is human. Because it's a great reveal. It's the same at-arms-length, detached way Ragar and Gejutel talked about humans in the first flashback, after nobles on Lukedonia had been isolated from humanity for so long. They speak about humans like us and them. Like an animal species. Going back and reading it now, it sounds very odd coming from Franken, and gave me ideas for this fic.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raizel had often wondered what the Lord had said to Frankenstein before he returned to the mansion, offering up his blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning that animals are hunted for food in this chapter. 
> 
> Thanks to Ankesenpaaten and escspace for beta-ing this chapter, and escspace's help with the physics lingo!
> 
> Contractor: someone who makes/offers the contract  
> Contractee: someone who enters into the contract

He had heard them calling from across the strait, faraway in their houses, in their beds, in foreign lands, weeping with their souls reached out as their nobles returned to the island: severed humans who had yet to lose their powers to amplify their pleas. They called out. Their nobles listened, but they did not turn back. Raizel wasn't present — he was on the island with his wings outstretched, collecting the blood of a thousand heretics. He tore life from veins of dissidents like birds do nectar. Some of them were traitors, they turned their backs on their lord, but some of them were simply loyal to someone else. It didn't matter to whom: the Noblesse sentenced them. Still, they cried out, like children.

The Lord recounted it to him afterwards. He told him how he set foot onto the mainland to assess himself the damage done. He told him how nobles had made their lives there, across the strait, in their houses, in their beds, in foreign lands they called _home._ He told him about the broken swords scattered like leaves, the mutants in large pits, the beheaded bodies and strange burial rituals to prevent the dead from rising. Garlic wreaths that repel evil. Wooden stakes to drive through the chest. Payers to resist the evil eye. War that had ravaged the lands, that had touched their little island.

They stood on the lip of the peninsula watching the last light slip past the mountains, listening together, when the Lord said to him, "Pretty sure it's better this way. Pretty, pretty sure. Super sure. Super duper. _Yeah."_ He was so assertive, so strong in his words, as if he himself wanted so earnestly to be convinced. "Don't contracts breed passion, passion to obsession, obsession to dominance?" The Lord looked to him, quietly, candidly, knowing Raizel would never tell. "Well. Oopsy daisy."

"What of those who were willing?" Raizel said. "What of those who chose to be bound?"

The Lord smiled. "If one of us will act as tyrant, then all of us will repent. If we cannot touch them without burning them, then we shall not touch."

That is the price of power. That is Noblesse Oblige.

The Lord turned, his eyes burning red, the pressure building in the air like an invisible eye of a storm until Ragnarok appeared — as soft as a sigh. Before them the great bridge loomed as it had for centuries strong, a behemoth that bridged two worlds. It was still beautiful then, silver and chrome, gothic spires that reflected the leaving sun. "They'll rule themselves, Cadis Etrama di Raizel. They don't need us."

The Lord brought Ragnarok down on the great bridge, cutting it apart, ripping Lukedonia from the mainland.

In one fell swoop, the enchantment and aura anchoring Lukedonia to a fixed point in reality was eliminated. At once, Lukedonia was wiped from the finite world, restored in its relativistic regime: there, and not there. Everywhere, nowhere. It is in a superposition of states, unknowable, and only by observing Lukedonia can one have it adopt a single state. If only briefly. There will be a famous thought experiment created by a human physicist far in the future about a cat in a box. Dead, and alive. Though right now, Raizel watches Lukedonia flicker, the mainland flicker. An entire nation disappeared.

It was only then, when the hammer had already come down, that Raizel pushed past his hesitance and asked him ravenously, "What is it like, to be with a human? To feel their heartbeat. To dream as they do? Feel as they do? How do they bear it?"

The Lord looked at him tenderly. "I dunno."

Later, when Raizel guards Frankenstein in his sleep, stands above his unconscious form, watching his chest rise and fall, faster, faster; he holds his own chest, this physical imitation of his, feeling that heart race, feeling those lungs work harder than they ever have, swallowing large mouthfuls of air as if he is a newborn, breathing his first; how does he _bear_ this? How does he _do_ it?

* * *

The cold wind laps against the trees, between the close knit houses and fences, causing a soft whistle that sounds both near and far. A nearby whisper, or a distant scream. Snow falls in small tufts, and snowflakes remain where they touch upon his black Lukedonian garb. Raizel walks along the covered path, passing the next few houses, the barn where Belfram stirs tentatively in a communal holding along with other animals.

As Raizel walks, he thinks. So this is how humans here live. In thatched cedar houses, cottages grouped together, with long strips of common land upon which to work together in changing seasons. Though the houses are small, some smoke drifts into the skies as fireplaces burn. Wherever there is humanity, there is light and there is warmth. Raizel passes a stone well, a small mill. Next to it is the farmstead's chapel, and near it a graveyard, only visible due to the tops of black headstones popping above the snow. Wherever there is humanity, there is love and memorial for fellow human, even in death.

The dirt path out of Bran is inches beneath the snow, and the prints the Stoicas, Belfram, Raizel, and Frankenstein left from the day before are gone. There is nothing but flat plains. It is as if no one had ever come here to visit, nor ever walked this path. When the Stoicas wake in the day it will be as if they had never had guests in their house.

They, like thieves in the night, will make away with even the memory…

Raizel looks to the hills. The forest, which Raizel has spent the past few weeks weaving in and out of, finding refuge in its forgiving shadows, now looms like a stranger. Yet that is the place Raizel heads. There is one set of new prints, surprisingly light, that dots up the slope. Raizel places one foot down in the snow and it melts away, physically repelled. He runs to the mutants they'd ridden the day before — they're all gone. Raizel goes to a knee, checking the freshly upturned ground. Frankenstein had been at work. He'd disposed of the bodies. He'd chosen to bury them instead of burning, taking care not to alert the nearby farmstead. There are two mounds hiding filled-in pits: one for the bodies, one for the heads. He can tell it had taken a lot of work.

But it strikes Raizel, for some reason, to see large, flat stones at the foot of the mounds. The stones are levelled and clean, as if they'd been cut and fashioned before being positioned as a marker. There is something different about this end than all the others. Even for mutants, high in these cold mountains, Frankenstein had given them a human burial. A hallowed grave.

Raizel goes further up the trail, but Frankenstein's tracks are already half-obscured by the snow. Other than the forest Raizel has on idea where Frankenstein could have gone. Raizel wanders here and there, bending back branches and repelling snow that is much thicker, making slow progress. After a while Frankenstein's tracks disappear completely. He looks around him where the trees are becoming more densely packed, where the wind whistles harsher from elsewhere in the distance. All he can see is white snow and endless trees, stretching on in every direction.

Frankenstein can be anywhere.

Raizel is alone.

He can locate him, and easily at that, but to locate him he must resort to their bond. Raizel isn't sure if he wants to do that. It isn't like reading a mind or offering thoughts between nobles — the bond is a direct link to Frankenstein's soul, and to open it exposes Frankenstein directly to his. He's seen what had happened to him when they made their bond. How overwhelming it had been. Even so, he is growing desperate. For every moment he spends deliberating, Frankenstein is a step further away. He holds no illusions as to his own prowess; the moment they'd left Lukedonia the onus on their guidance fell from Raizel to Frankenstein. Frankenstein was the one who had guided them all this way. Frankenstein was the one who tracked the mutants. Who headed their investigation. Without Frankenstein, Raizel is a leaf in the wind, flimsy and directionless; a foreigner, lost and unbelonging.

If Frankenstein treks by himself into the Carpathians, Raizel can never find him again.

Raizel's chest quickens. His jaw shakes, but not from cold. He feels inadequate, useless. Fear is not an emotion that should exist in the Noblesse. Raizel's pace quickens, too, he strides through sleet and snow, bends gnarled branches out of the way to force a path. But it is no use. All he is doing is growing more disordered. There is no point to this. He may as well be pushing a rickety wagon uphill. A rock up a mountain.

Raizel breathes in. He breathes out. His breath invisible in the air. His eyes glow, and he opens the bond.

* * *

_—_ _hands throb, power buzzing through them, but it's satisfying, actually, feels powerful, the way bones make a satisfying crack against stone, even more when they start thrashing, beating their limbs like helpless upturned bugs — blind thrashing is a useless tactic — stupid idiot — he twists, mouth gnashing wide revealing entirely too many teeth —_ _jump — getting away! Not again — take the thicket cut him off — branches go flying hand around his throat again — caught like an idiot god you’re so dumb this is the kind of worthless stupid moron who —_ Who's there? _— Someone listening? What's happening. Knees getting weak._ Who—Who are you? _Foreign power surging, enveloping — body reacting to invasion — insides feeling hot — feeling violated…_ Get out _—reacts mindlessly — thrashing like a useless upturned bug, scratches his own chest —_ GET OUT, GET OUT _— lets go of the mutant — can't help it — lets go limply and stumbles back_ _— so disorientated…so powerful…_ Is that you? Sir? Is that you? _— the mutant surges —_ Master? _— strikes him in the head as he loses his footing — mid-fall — scraping half his face clean off—_

* * *

It takes precious few minutes to run at top speed to where Frankenstein is close by lower down the slopes. The contact was minimal, but enough. He easily follows the thread that binds them and closes in on Frankenstein in a small clearing ahead. When he nears, he sees that the trees have been beaten back by a large outburst, the snow partially melted. Spots of blood speckle the ground. Raizel nears the the clearing. He hears Frankenstein before he sees him.

"—on't you think? I admire your kind back there, you know. Not one of you sold out your creator. Very courageous. Either that, or none of you even know who's at the top of your chain. That's just plain stupidity then."

There is the sound of more gurgling. Struggling.

"Imagine. Giving yourself over to some mook you've never even met. If I were going to lick a noble's boot, I'd find out what kind of leather they wore first. Make sure it's to my tastes."

There is a sickening crack of cranium knocking on rock.

"—I told ye…I don't know anythin'!" the mutant growls. Their voice isn't as distorted, or gravelled, it is surprisingly clear. "I'm just…I'm just a horse driver! I drive horses for a living!"

"Correction. You _drove_ horses for a living."

"No! No, no, look. Look. I'm just…I'm from Banffy Village. I was bitten by a mutant…then I turned out like this. I didn't want this. I didn't want to be a monster. I had to leave my home. I lost…everything. I'm just a third generation, I — I don't know anything!"

Raizel approaches the small clearing. It is bordered by freshly broken trees, scratch marks on the floor, and quickly-freezing blood. Frankenstein is holding the mutant that had escaped the day before by the neck. The mutant balances on his tiptoes, looking away from him.

"Look at me," Frankenstein growls. The mutant does. "…I passed Banffy Village on the way here. Banffy is abandoned. Do you know why?"

The mutant's eyes flicker, caught. "I don't know..."

Empty, skeletal houses, broken in roofs, and black, scorched, frozen wood comes to Raizel: Banffy, as he had rested amidst its ruins. Upon Frankenstein's lead they'd rested one night there. He'd broken up the walls of a home for firewood. A bronze church bell for a pot to brew. Raizel hadn't known its name. He didn't know that Frankenstein did. 

Frankenstein yanks the mutant off the rock, slams him back down. The mutant splutters. "You don't know?" he offers. "Well don't worry. Because I know. I know what happened…" Frankenstein's eyes narrow dangerously, and his grip starts to tighten. "I think you bit a human. Then that human bit another. Then they bit another, they another, and another, until I just buried the entirety of Banffy behind me, didn't I?"

"I'm—I'm so thirsty!" the mutant cries, hoarse, "I'll…I'll die without blood…you have no idea how _hungry_ I am…how _parched_ …I'll die."

Frankenstein disregards him. "You got to keep your mind and yet still went around biting other humans…like a dog, humping any leg it sees. Didn't master ever teach you manners?"

The mutant claws at Frankenstein, but Frankenstein picks him up and brings him down with another sickening _thud._ "Fffuck you. I'll never sell out Master."

"What makes your precious master worth more than those mutants?"

The mutant pants. His mouth is full of sharp, jagged, shape-shifted teeth. He sniffs the air, neck craning back, twisting suddenly. Frankenstein flinches, but does not let go. Even from this distance, every inch of Raizel is attuned to Frankenstein's blood rushing down his obscured face, falling in rivulets. The mutant's eyes grow wide. He breathes in deeply, sighing as if in bliss — in ecstasy. He leans in hungrily towards Frankenstein, panting, "You're _human?"_

"Hurry up. Before _he_ arrives." Frankenstein continues. "Who is your contractor?"

The mutant can barely concentrate on him, stirred by the amount of blood running everywhere. "I thought you were a noble." But the blood drives him into frenzy, enough for Raizel to feel something else stir within him.

"Frankenstein," Raizel calls, stepping out. "That is no mutant," he says, and his voice barely crosses the space, yet it echoes around in Frankenstein's mind clear as bells. "He is a direct contractee."

The contractee shakes now, his corrupted yellow eyes staring at Frankenstein. "You…you're _him."_

"Master," Frankenstein looks back. He turns strategically, facing him only with the right side of his face, which is smooth and untouched. There is only a peak of red inflammation at the very edges. "Excuse me," he says accommodatingly. "I'll be with you in just one moment."

The contractee, his eyes going wide, snaps back to consciousness. _"Master?"_

Frankenstein realises his mistake. Anger erupts, rips at his mind like tongues of flame, and he yanks the contractee from the rock, arms flexed to pummel him back into the jagged point. He is going to kill him. But the contractee finally finds his strength, renewed by a noble's power deep within him. He kicks Frankenstein back with an incredible punch of strength, growling, nodding his head almost eagerly. "Master Sam," the contractee starts, and he raises his head, speaking to the air, "Master, it's Marcu. He's here, Master, the one you want. Frankenstein's here!" he raves. "He's with a noble — a noble _he_ calls his _master!"_

Frankenstein charges at him. But the mutant grins — his line of sight goes to Raizel — and he releases his attack in his direction.

Raizel lifts a hand.

But he does nothing, because Frankenstein has slammed his weight into the ground, changing directions; he lurches in front and just barely vanquishes the attack with his own, his body arched to take the blow. He has not thought, only reacted. Running to be a shield. Raizel's hand is still in the air, paralysed by Frankenstein's back before him. His mouth parted. But the counter works and purple aura manages to overtake red. It sizzles the grounds until all the snow is evaporated into hot mist.

Then a surge of noble aura embroils the contractee and he grins, blazing, before he disappears in a gush of red. Frankenstein leaps into it, swaying left and right, stomping in a circle as his eyes dart up and down, searching for the contractee.

When he realises he's gone, escaped, he spits blood out of his mouth and _screeches_.

* * *

The cup smashed upon the floor. Frankenstein thought, _god, I want to get out of here._ Then he fled. Far from the mansion. Far from the pinewood. Far, far away, to the other side of the island — to the Lord's Palace. Raizel had often wondered what the Lord had said to him, because when Frankenstein next came to him with a cup of freshly brewed tea, the scent of blood hit him. 

"The tea tastes different," Raizel said.

"Does it? Ah, it's a new blend…" Frankenstein said. 

"Frankenstein," Raizel stated, his existence stated, laying bare every part of him, "We have entered into a contract of the soul. Do you consent?"

He held onto the cup as tight as he could, mortified that he might drop it. He couldn't feel his hands. His fingers were numb. In a beat, the chance to make the contract would pass. They had only this moment. Any hesitance from Frankenstein would end this now.

But Frankenstein hadn't hesitated. He went to his knees. "Yes, Master."

Raizel's power rose up, and the exchange began. Raizel's power flooded into Frankenstein, and Frankenstein had offered himself up, opening up eagerly, willingly, more and more and more, inviting him in, _yes, yes, I want this, I consent, please, please Master, I want to stay by your side,_ but as the process continued Frankenstein's thoughts turned incomprehensible. In the stories, a pact with the fae brought on pleasure as well as delirium — human and noble were two completely different beings, wired in divergent ways, and a human mind wasn't designed to come into intimate contact to a noble's, it was not built to withstand the sudden psychic connection. Icarus was not meant to touch the sun. In the old days, ordinary nobles skilled in their mind control had made contracts freely with humans with little burden, but Raizel was no ordinary noble. He was the Noblesse. The Noblesse was a sea which drowned its errant wayfarers. The Noblesse was a storm which swallowed the damned. He was the most powerful noble in all of Lukedonia; he was no subject to the Lord as he was his check, and he had just touched Frankenstein with his mind and soul.

And Frankenstein. Frankenstein was no ordinary human — he had taken himself apart, bit by bit, and rebuilt himself stronger, faster, sturdier, so as to champion his people against Raizel's. A lifetime spent altering himself to shield against psychic powers he now willingly surrendered to, a lifetime of modifications that now made him hypersensitive to any touch of the mind, any brush of noble connection, any enemies wanting to impose their will over his, and conquer him.

Frankenstein's thoughts blanked, overwhelmed by the rush of Raizel. Then, his enhanced body reacted the exact way he'd modified it to do. His body took the rush of power and aura as an intrusion, and rejected it.

Frankenstein fell forward, flat upon his face, and his body convulsed. Dark Spear had risen up, as he'd trained them to do for this very situation, and fought back: a thousand, a hundred thousand, a million humans and mutants who had this very fate forced upon them, clawing to get free, _get away_ from him. Frankenstein's hands, relaxed and splayed open, knocked against the floor, palms up, as he shook and shook. His eyes were open. He thought nothing. Raizel felt something the Noblesse had no need of: a spike of terror.

All along, the Lord was Wise — contracts were undeniably dangerous to humans, even if consensual.

Raizel hurried to the floor, picking Frankenstein up, supporting his neck as he shook. He'd already awakened him, he could not do it twice — certainly not so soon after the first — he tried to stop, halt himself, control himself, don't touch — but it was too late. It took the barest effort for his powers to extinguish Frankenstein's, his aura to overrun his, his soul to push down Dark Spear's million souls. Wherever there is people he shall flee like magnetic poles. Introduced species would wreak havoc in a closed terrarium. Frankenstein's body did its best to resist. Instinct he had built in himself over the years came alive, fighting admirably like feeble, last death throes. But it was simply impossible. He could try to resist, but he cannot stop the contract anymore than he can stop the night turn to day. With his blood in Raizel's mouth, it was frightfully easy.

Slowly, Frankenstein came to. "Master..." he whispered, exhausted. He shut his eyes, as if burned. "Is it done?"

Raizel could only bow his head. "Yes. It is done."

They were bonded. Frankenstein was a man submerged in a sea. A human embroiled in perpetual storm. His blood and body were at Raizel's disposal. How could he bear this? How could he possibly bear _him?_

* * *

"Frankenstein."

Frankenstein is faced towards a wall of rock, leaning on it with his arms, his shoulders rising and falling ever so slightly.

"Frankenstein…"

"He knows about us." His shoulders rest, and his breathing resumes its normal pace. But his voice is anything but calm, quivering and an octave higher. "Sir…Sir…" Frankenstein says to the wall, "I was — I was disorientated, stupid — I said, I said — what I said was a mistake."

"He knows nothing."

"He knows you have bonded with me!" Frankenstein finally cries. He beats a fist onto the rock, cracking it in a spiderwebbed spiral. "I can't let him live. We can't let him live. I need to find that traitorous leech and end him now."

"Frankenstein," Raizel says, "Calm yourself."

Frankenstein's shoulders stiffen. He sucks air in and out, his fists uncurl into limp palms as he slumps against the wall instead of pushing upon it. He takes Raizel's words as command, again, and works intently to un-temper himself.

"…I'm sorry you had to see that unpleasantness," Frankenstein says to Raizel behind him, once he has collected himself. "I should have been able to handle that. I am able to handle one contractee, I swear to you, Sir. Usually, I'm—" But he has not collected himself completely, because he chatters lowly, stuttering and mumbling. If there is one observation Raizel knows about Frankenstein, it's that he only makes promises when he is desperate. "I only, I lost control, for a moment, and he caught me off guard, if you hadn't come here, I…" He trails off lamely. Frankenstein leans forward, as if bowing, pressing his head into the wall. It makes a small but audible thud. "…I shouldn't be making excuses. I failed you. I apologise."

But Raizel is not interested in his bargaining. "Turn to me."

Frankenstein's head rises a little. "What?"

"Turn to face me."

Frankenstein pauses. "…Please. I need more time."

"I have asked you to turn."

"Please, Sir," Frankenstein says politely, "just one moment more."

"No," Raizel says, as he spars in this bizarre sacrament, this way of civil society. "Turn."

Frankenstein engages. "I'm an eyesore."

"I do not care."

"A servant cannot possibly face his master this way."

"A servant shall not disobey his master." Raizel swallows. He holds his ground. "I have ordered you to turn."

Yet Frankenstein lingers there a moment more. He seems contrite, as if caught in a lie. But then he lets go of his frustration, he holds down his pride by the throat, and turns.

The right side of his face is unscathed, youthful and agreeable as always. The left side of his face, still dripping blood, is completely skinned. Four long lacerations snake up from neck to forehead like he has been clawed apart. His dermis skin is visible, down to the jawbone, like cut-open, raw meat. The sight is ghastly, and this notion must have shown upon Raizel's expression, because Frankenstein shifts his weight. His hands hover, as if resisting the urge to cover himself. He acts the same as if he has acquired an accidental cut upon shaving the cheek. Even if every part of him is poised to shield his mind right now, barricaded closed, his emotions poison the air around him like fetid smoke to Raizel. He feels humiliated, and Raizel is doused in this.

But, Raizel continues to stare. He finishes Frankenstein's prior line of thought. "If I did not come, you would have easily incapacitated the contractee. You would never have been injured." Raizel sighs lethargically. "I did this to you."

"What?" Frankenstein's eyes snap up. "No."

"I startled you," he said. This is what the humans would call a considerable understatement. "And you are sealed. By my order. This hurt you. The fault lies with me. I should apologise."

"No! Sir!" Frankenstein shakes his mangled, fibrous face. This time, his protestations do not die down. "I take responsibility for my own actions. And I'll heal! I just need time to heal."

"Then don't speak any more," Raizel whispers. "Heal."

Frankenstein stumbles, as if he has taken more damage upon Raizel's words. He stands still, until Raizel realises Frankenstein is waiting for him to take his leave — so Frankenstein can stay here in his own small pool of blood dripping at his feet, willing himself to heal at superhuman speeds, standing here until he is presentable to Raizel again. But Raizel doesn't leave. So Frankenstein leads him back to the forest, somewhere they can both get away from the scene of the fight.

Frankenstein cuts down two even-shaped logs, places them a way away from each other, symmetrically. He cuts down more even strips of log, then bundles them together. He uses a spark of power to ignite it. The flames that leap to life burn purple. After half a minute it fizzles and turns orange. All the while as Frankenstein works, the wounds upon his face begin to knit together. New skin grows rapidly over exposed red.

"Are you hungry?" Frankenstein pipes up. "Of course not," he berates himself. "But would you like food?"

He goes off again, trekking into the wilderness until his blonde head is only a speck in the distance, until nothing. Raizel sits at the fire, listening to the intermittent crackle. For a crunch of snow that heralds Frankenstein's return. For someone who has spent so much of his life alone, one brief interlude of solitary time had driven him some kind of hysterical. How uncomely. Like a youth barely past his two hundredth year, he makes heedless judgments. Raizel seethes against the fire. These feelings, these flaws in his design are so extraneous. He tries to recall a time in his existence he has ever felt fear. A time he has ever known regret. Guilt. Terror. These are not things that are supposed to be present in the Noblesse. The Noblesse deals in judgment and eternal sleep. Death and seclusion have shown him more permanence and devotion than any knight or subject ever had, and not once with those companions at his side has he felt such lapses in emotion. He thinks of the Lord, stalwart in his decree, smiling upon the cliffside. What is there to fear? What is there to regret? But Raizel looks into the same middle distance, the fresh, clean prints in the snow, and feels against his will that involuntary leviathan rise. He is as helpless as he was when he woke up alone in this human world. Frankenstein has trekked off into the snow…

And it instantly stops being real. Like Lukedonia in the fog, appearing and reappearing in fits and starts of relativity, everything about he and Frankenstein ceases the moment Frankenstein is absent.

Frankenstein in the garden, the cups and cups of red tea, the strawberries, carnations, violent convulsing, abandoned village, dead mutants, warm cottage — they are like incorporeal spectres, hanging flimsily. Because no one else in the world knows these truths, only he and Frankenstein, they are the secret keepers to the same pastime, and that knowledge is sealed. When Frankenstein is gone, that truth is like — like freshly fallen snow, neatly-made guest bedsheets in the Stoicas' house, Lukedonia. Raizel will not tell. Just like Frankenstein will never tell about their contract: outside their minds, it doesn't exist. They will each take it to the grave.

He has glimpsed his face. Frankenstein is off in the snow. Raizel can never find him again.

The conifers shudder and a few snowbirds flutter into the air, chirping as the thicket parts suddenly. Frankenstein shakes off snow from his slacks as two small rabbits dangle in his hand. "I hope you haven't been waiting long. I had to go some way to find game."

* * *

Raizel watches Frankenstein peel and gut the rabbits. He makes quick work of it, peeling and cutting and cleaning fluently, until the repetitive movements chase out any other thought in his mind. It must have been a long time since Frankenstein had performed a task such as this, having lived in his mansion where he made frequent use of kitchen and scullery and all its amenities. Still, Raizel is fascinated. He watches Frankenstein's hands work dextrously.

Raizel knows those hands have stolen the lives of many nobles. He has watched those very hands punch and claw and strangle. Those hands had been at the throat of a contractee only an hour ago, trying their hardest to squeeze the life out of him…Yet Frankenstein is much more triumphant now; he feels a swell more of pride to cook and prepare Raizel's meals for him than kill mutant and enemy.

Frankenstein's face is healing. But blotches of fibrous red still remain, like angry, pussing sores. 

"Don't worry, Sir," Frankenstein says, after he has put the rabbits on a spit. "After this rest, I'll go after that traitor. It's the same one I let get away yesterday. Kill him, and his knowledge is silenced. No one will know a thing," he says, with so much force behind the reassurance. "You were right." His eyes narrow severely, and the flames make his still-exposed face shine. "He _is_ a contractee."

"He is human."

Frankenstein looks to him. His brows fly up, questioning.

"He is a human contractee to a noble," Raizel says. "He is no traitor to Lukedonia."

Frankenstein's expression flickers, considering this. "But he is a traitor." He states as this as fact. "He's a traitor to his own kind."

They sit there silently as the meal cooks. Soon, Frankenstein's wounds are perfectly mended as if nothing had touched him. The snow had let up only for a while before it fell again, but now the winds batter the fire and snow comes down more fitfully. Frankenstein begins to breathe mist again. Under the white sky the cold causes Frankenstein's lashes to frost. Raizel wonders if they will have to find shelter if another storm is brewing.

After a while Frankenstein says out of the blue, "Do you like my face, Sir?"

Raizel blinks snow out of his eyes. He's not sure if that is a rhetorical question or not.

"Shaving takes a few more years off of me, doesn't it?"

"…Indeed," Raizel agrees. He braves the pause. "You are appealing to the eye."

Frankenstein makes a noise between a sigh and a chuckle. "Thank you for that admission. So it pleases you to look at this face, I see…" Then he says, his voice growing lower, more dangerous, "This face that pleases you so much…has deceived more men than you can know." He huffs, haphazardly. "Would it still please you, if it were wrinkled and sagged akin to burlap? If grey hair clung to the roots like mould?"

Raizel imagines it. Imagines the image of an elder man.

"Don't let this face fool you, Sir. I am an old man. I am contemporaries with Mr and Mrs Stoica. In fact, I'd wager I am more senior than they are."

But Raizel can no longer hear him. If he is contemporaries with Sophia and Luca Stoica…Frankenstein is…young. He is so incredibly, frighteningly young. Raizel had always known Frankenstein aged differently from other humans, his lifespan is extended — but he had no idea he had not lived a full human existence. He was infantile when the mutant outbreak began. He was young when he came to Lukedonia, alone, enemies at the helm. He was young when he bent the knee. Raizel cannot fathom his own life at the tender age of the Stoicas, a forgotten childhood, a diluted memory. Frankenstein has not even reached half of the age of majority for a noble.

But of course. He is no noble.

Frost flies, crystallising the edges of Raizel's hair, his lashes, his collar. The wind picks up, and the sound of atmospheric howling does as well, spinning itself into blustery noise that whips past his face when Frankenstein says, very gently, next to him, "…You knew I was coming back, before, right?"

Raizel's lips tremble. His world sharply focuses around Frankenstein. He looks as he did the day he met him. 

"I was going to clear the bodies, find the mutant that ran, and try and get a lead upon the missing nobles. That's all."

Raizel nods.

Frankenstein turns back to the fire dismissively. "Ah, how remiss of me to say so. Of course you knew. I couldn't run if I tried...as you've demonstrated."

* * *

Raizel says to Frankenstein, "What did the Lord tell you when you visited his palace?"

Frankenstein discreetly spits rabbit bone behind him. "P-Pardon?" he utters. "You knew the Lord wanted my audience." Frankenstein takes another bite of food. He finishes it quickly — his rabbit was a runt — and sifts snow through his fingers. He'd left the larger portion to Raizel. Even if Raizel cannot feel physical hunger. "You…agreed to let me see him." He reminds him gently, as though his memory fails him often, but there is a defensive tone to his voice.

Raizel takes a small bite of rabbit before setting his aside as well. "The Lord holds you in high regard."

Frankenstein looks at him the same way he looks at the specimens in his study room before he quells himself and sits up straight again. He makes an amused noise in his throat. "Him? Hold me in high regard? More like he's interested in a novelty object."

Frankenstein seems irate at the thought, but Raizel shakes his head. "He spoke to me about you. He thinks you are proof of what humanity will achieve in the future. Your ingenuity and resourcefulness have greatly struck him such that no other has."

Raizel takes another small bite of food. Frankenstein is quiet. He watches Raizel closely, forgetting even to avert his eyes. Frankenstein hangs onto his last word, waiting avidly for him to continue.

"He spoke to me in private. He believes you herald great change. And that your people will follow in your path to greater achievements," Raizel recounts. "Humans once hailed nobles as gods and deities. In my youth, worship of nobles was commonplace. Now we are folk monsters. Fae, demon, vampire, strigoi. Perhaps this reality will change more in the future. You see us for what we are. Perhaps you will bring humans closer to our strength. Perhaps this can bridge our peoples. It is what the Lord wished, I think."

"You…think?" Frankenstein says weakly.

"No one can presume to know how the Lord discerns the world. His predictions often come to pass. The Lord—"

"—is Wise. I get it." Frankenstein huffs. Regret fills the air like petrichor; heavy, dragging humidity. "I mean…why are you telling me this?" Frankenstein grimaces — wrong choice of words again. He fiddles with his fingers, flickering through phrases to find a docile response, clearly thinking hard, but instead of diverting small talk, polite nothings, _safe_ nothings, he settles on a small truth. "I don't think I've ever heard you speak so much."

But Raizel only looks to him earnestly. "The Lord can protect you and understand you. He can aid you and converse with you."

"…Sir, where is this going?"

"You can stay with him on Lukedonia," Raizel says accommodatingly.

Frankenstein's agreeable face twists into a rare expression shock.

Raizel makes his position clear. "If not here, in the human world — if you must return to Lukedonia — you may stay with the Lord," Raizel offers. "Of course, you will have freedom of movement and action, my fullest blessing to do as you will."

Frankenstein flounders, speechless. "I…the Lord…"

"Is the Lord not accommodating?"

"He — _sure,_ he is—"

"Is he not good for conversation?"

"Yes, he has an exceptionally big mouth, but—"

"Then let him be your benefactor. You can be more fulfilled living at the palace with the Lord."

"No!" Frankenstein jumps to his feet, spitting. "No I will not. I don't care how great and lovely your blithering Lord is or how much nonsense he can spin out of his silk mouth, I don't care if he invented air — there's just one galavanting elephant in the room Sir and that's that he isn't my Lord!" His blonde hair sways from side to side, blowing all over the place as he gesticulates largely, "He's some vapid monarch sitting on his great throne looking down on humans like we're an uncontrolled experiment, he thinks I walk on water for daring to fight his traitorous goons as if that's a trait of admiration — I'm just the only goddamned human who can do it and live! A cockroach has the same qualities."

Frankenstein emanates disgust, but Raizel is too stricken by his words — though not for their tenor or volume. It's the first time he's ever heard Frankenstein freely refer to himself as human.

"He wants all humans to surpass our limits? He wants all humans to become strong so we can defend against nobles? Be equals? What if all humans can't surpass our limitations? We can't all be strong. We can't all be — _me._ Why must we all be strong, why must we all fight, endlessly, for strength. That strength isn't natural to us. It's dangerous to us. It's painful!" Frankenstein keeps talking. He stomps around the fire, the logs, until he plods down just as suddenly as he'd leapt up, holding his neck as if bracing.

"I don't care how many nobles revere him and the ground he walks on, how many humans think he is God, he isn't _my_ Lord. He sent his cronies to beat me. He isn't my Lord. _You_ are my Lord! _You!"_ Frankenstein looks Raizel right in the eyes. _"_ And I'd rather you chain me in your sanctuary to starve, rot and be strung up as stuffed taxidermy, mounted upon your drawing room mantle than be gifted to him."

With abrupt, deliberate force, Frankenstein falls forward, off the log, onto his knees. He seizes Raizel's limp hand, which he draws to his face, and then jams Raizel's silver ring to his mouth. He stays like that for a while, looking wild.

When he finally draws back he says, in Lukedonian, "Please, Master, give me another chance." Then, in Greek, "My Lord, I wouldst serve thee with mine all." His breath mists over Raizel's fingers as he speaks fast, like an incantation: "Prithee My Lord grant me mercy once more; my fidelity has long been paid for, thou cannot abandon thy Lord with ungrateful, wretched perfidy so foul one wounds; fie! I am thine and thine only, hither I prostrate; My Lord it is thine will that moves mine body, it is thine whim that commands mine soul; mine place rests thus at the heel of My Lord, my Master, Sir Cadis Etrama di Raizel…"

Frankenstein gazes at him with his heart hammering against its cage, leaping out of his chest, infecting Raizel.

"…Amen."

Frankenstein's hand is warm to the touch. He holds Raizel's hand so hard Raizel thinks, if he were human, it'd break. Frankenstein says nothing more. He only waits for his opinion on the matter.

"…I accept your will," Raizel says, blankly.

Frankenstein sighs. Slowly, his eyes trail to their hold. _"Lord,"_ he says. He speaks in perfect Lukedonian. "Your hands. They're _cold."_

Frankenstein curls his fingers around Raizel's. But Raizel has already leeched the heat from them — he is cold too — so Frankenstein beckons him in, guides his hands to the dying fire.

He helps Raizel hold them in place, as if worried Raizel would not effectively catch the heat without him.

* * *

The snow flurries in a horizontal blur, flying fiercely until heavy and blinding. The last time the snow was so harsh Frankenstein had quickly looked for shelter and stoked a fire. But their campfire has already burned out, and Frankenstein gives no indication of stopping his search.

Frankenstein surveys the area, shielding his eyes with an arm against the wind. "My Lord. We'll find that contractee faster if we split up and cover more ground. I'm not worried about him getting away. A storm's coming and there's nowhere to run. Find any kind of shelter upon this slope, and we find our little contractee."

So Raizel trudges into the snow, deep into the slopes. He tries not to think about anything, only wanders as the residual warmth evaporates from him. But his thoughts turn as restless as the storm. Fear and regret — doubt and indecision — is it that the Noblesse is not supposed to have to these feelings? Or is it just that Raizel doesn't like feeling this way? Now they fester, like raw wounds. Look at him, yearning for reprieve.

Would death and seclusion run — _charge_ — blind and headfirst, to be hit in his place? 

The snow flurries. Raizel watches the dancing flakes fly and flit, falling obliquely against the scattered light…Light. Raizel trudges on, picking up the pace, until he breaks through the icy blur and sees in the distance a small log cabin. There must be candlelight, or a hearth like the Stoicas, or a coal tray that illuminates it from within. For wherever there is humanity, there it glows. He extends his mind, scanning the grounds. Only one soul inside the distant cabin. A man. Raizel has found him.

Just as Raizel turns around, ready to await Frankenstein, he steps into something solid, crunching.

The first thing he sees is a blink of silver. A knife.

And then, the white, frozen fingers curled snugly around the hilt.

A human body, sunken in the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Franken only ever calls Rai "My Lord" from some egscans fan translations before it fully switched to the more accurate "Master," yet I was so rabid over this somewhat small and random change of address at times I talked about why he did the Thing. 
> 
> Does it seem like Franken is really underperforming? He really should have been able to take one human contractee easily! But it's because Franken's just been sealed for the first time after romping around fully powered most of his life and fighting Ragar for entertainment. In modern day, Franken seriously can't beat a transformed Takeo in his sealed state. A transformed Mary posed some danger to him. The seal puts an extreme cap on his strength in reality, and this is his very first time working with those constraints. He expected to jump right back into noble hunting like 10 years ago...instead he finds that he is severely depowered. And he's already made all these promises to Rai...
> 
> Glossary: 
> 
> Fidelity - faithfulness, loyalty  
> Fie - exclamation, disapproval, like 'fuck!'  
> Hither - here, to this or at this place  
> Perfidy - breaking faith, treachery, betrayal  
> Prithee - 'pray thee to you', to ask, to beg  
> Prostrate - to lower onto floor, bowing low


End file.
